


The Way the Pendulum Swings

by Purplesauris



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Established Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, acrobatic jaskier, fistfighting, hi hello it's buffskier time, is this somewhat Not Possible?, jaskier fights all of the witchers, leave me be, not much honestly, some swordfighting, yes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:00:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28000542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purplesauris/pseuds/Purplesauris
Summary: Jaskier is woefully undertrained, and Geralt can't be there to protect him all the time. The only person Geralt can think of capable of training anyone is far, far north, in the secluded keep of Kaer Morhen.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 24
Kudos: 312





	The Way the Pendulum Swings

**Author's Note:**

> I had the best conversation/freak out with Adri over this idea, and obsessed all day at work until i could go home and write it. Please, PLEASE look at the fantastic art that Adri has drawn to go along with this fic! https://frostedbasilisk.tumblr.com/post/637160225339785217/he-hears-the-shuffle-of-feet-in-the-dirt-and

“I think we need help.” Geralt says, leaning over and offering a hand to hoist Jaskier up. His doublet is now covered in dirt on the back and Jaskier’s pride is wounded, but Jaskier grins sheepishly all the same. 

“I told you, I’m uselessly lead footed.” Jaskier dusts himself off as best he can and fixes his hair, turning so that Geralt can dust him off the rest of the way. “If you can’t teach me dear, who possibly could?”

“Vesemir trained me.” He points out, and Jaskier raises both eyebrows in shock, tilting his head and hmmming. 

“You want to go up north, so that Vesemir can train me?”

“It’s only a few weeks early.” Jaskier pins him with a look that could wither the largest tree, and Geralt has to fight to keep from withering too. Jaskier’s expression lightens quickly, eyes softening, and he goes up on his tiptoes to press a kiss to the tip of Geralt’s nose. 

“Fine. But if he can’t train me, I suppose it’s a lost cause, hmm? Then my big brute of a witcher will  _ have _ to protect me.” Jaskier’s voice is fond, and though the word should sting, he wields it like such a compliment that Geralt feels himself relaxing. Jaskier  _ likes _ his brutishness, and has said so many times. “Shall we set out in the morning then?”

“Mmm.” 

-*-

Their trip up through the mountain is much more pleasant this time- the breeze is just barely beginning to hold the frigid notes of winter, and animals are plentiful along the path. They can take their time, too, in no rush to beat the snows or be the last ones there, so Jaskier can truly admire their surroundings. He spends just as much time singing as he usually does, but now it’s waxing poetics about the way the grass sways in the wind and the mountain air plays with flower petals. It’s meaningless and frilly, but Geralt likes to hear Jaskier like this- wondering at the world around him and seeing the beauty in everything. Not that he’ll tell him such, though if he hums along when Jaskier’s a few steps ahead, no one can blame him.

Geralt has to end up climbing the side of the keep and slipping over when they get up to the massive gates. Vesemir isn’t expecting anyone for at least another month, so the gates are firmly shut and Geralt has to open it for them. Jaskier leads Roach inside and meets Geralt at the stables, helping in taking off all the packs and brushing her down. He leaves that mostly to Geralt in actuality, and feeds Roach a couple of apples from their pack as a treat. 

“You’ll make her fat.” Geralt scolds, but Jaskier just laughs and kisses her soft nose. 

“She works too hard not to get an apple from me.” Roach butts her head against Jaskier’s chest in agreement, and he looks at Geralt to say  _ see? _ Geralt shakes his head, but he spends an extra bit of time brushing her down and getting her comfortable. Jaskier murmurs quietly to her, telling her what a good horse she is for putting up with Geralt for so long and smiling when he hears Geralt scoff quietly. 

“Geralt, Jaskier.” Jaskier jumps at the sudden arrival of a new voice, and Geralt merely glances over at his adopted father. “You’re early.”

“Geralt’s idea, I’m afraid.” Vesemir chuckles, as if that he already knew that well enough. “He says, and I quote, that I am “woefully unprepared to fight off even the weakest of foes”, and thus, my only hope is you.”

“That’s all he said?” Jaskier grins at Vesemir, snickering when Geralt grumbles and stoops to grab their bags from the hay. “Well, I have to agree. I suppose I could put you through accelerated training.”

“Then consider me your dedicated pupil.” Jaskier bows low at the waist, blue eyes bright when he straightens up. Vesemir smiles at that, a fleeting glimpse under the usual stern exterior, and Jaskier takes it as a win.

No one expected Jaskier to take to training quite the way that he did. Much like a fish to water, actually. Jaskier still woke early to tend to the livestock, as had been his job the last three winters he’d managed to come up to Kaer Morhen, and still managed to make enough food to feed the witchers and leave them wanting for nothing. But when he wasn’t embroiled in other chores, he was outside, under the watchful eyes of Vesemir. Vesemir had sent Geralt off to tend to the monsters in the forests while they trained, and when Jaskier had asked why, Vesemir had just said that Geralt was a mother hen. 

They’d started off with basic fighting, and Jaskier’s progress went significantly faster than it ever had with Geralt. He seemed a natural at it; graceful and light on his feet in a way that many witchers struggled with even today, body already strong from years on the Path. Vesemir wasn’t sure where the problem was in teaching Jaskier- he was attentive and driven to continue until Vesemir had to tell him to stop. By the end of Jaskier’s first month, Vesemir watched and paced the length of the wall as Jaskier hopped and danced around the huge pendulum swinging in the wind. The first time Jaskier had hauled himself up onto the poletops Geralt had nearly called the whole thing off, protests on his lips. He’d remembered his own training as a child, much younger than Jaskier, and had decided to trust him, and trust in Vesemir. 

Jaskier thought that the pendulum was  _ fun _ . Geralt had never thought balancing on the tops of poles and dodging a large, spiky pendulum was  _ fun _ , but Jaskier laughed and jested with Vesemir the whole time, catching himself when he stumbled and swearing like Lambert when a spike slammed sideways into his thigh. After the pendulums, Jaskier would be sent to run the walls in true witcher school fashion, and by the time dinner came around Jaskier was all but dead on his feet. Still, he got up day after day, boasting of the newest bruises that had formed in the night as if they were a badge of valor. 

“You hide it.” Jaskier stumbles atop the poles, righting his footing as Vesemir lets out a  _ careful- _ and watches him a bit closer.

“Hide what, dear teacher of mine?” Vesemir raps a wooden sword against one of the poles, making it shake under foot, but Jaskier merely hops to another pole and brandishes his sword. 

“Your fighting prowess.” Jaskier stops then, dropping gracefully into a balanced crouch so he can hear Vesemir over the roaring of the wind. Vesemir allows him a moment to talk, since he started it, and watches the way Jaskier adjusts to keep the wind from blowing him off the poles. “You were already trained, weren’t you?”

“I’m a noble, Vesemir. There isn’t much that I wasn’t trained in. My father thought it important that I learn, in the worry I be called to war.”

“You’re a noble.” Vesemir points out in refute to that, and Jaskier laughs. No noble has ever been called to war anymore than they’ve been called to shovel pig shit. “It’s served you well now, though.”

“I suppose it has.” Jaskier agrees, standing once again. Vesemir uses a weak blast of aard to get the pendulum going again, and Jaskier twirls around the obstacle, feet hardly touching one pole before he vaults for the next.

“When the other boys get here, let’s put that to the test.” Jaskier doesn't say anything, but he’s grinning, and he pushes himself just a bit harder. 

-*-

“Since when the fuck have you been first?” Geralt grunts as Lambert claps him on the back, nudging the younger man with his shoulder. “No Jaskier this year?”

“He’s here.” Geralt turns back to the dummy he’s restuffing, pointedly not looking toward Jaskier on the far side of the grounds. “With Vesemir.”

“What, talking about boring old history in the library again?”

Geralt smirks at that, tilting his head back toward the pendulums and turning to catch Lambert’s reaction. Lambert looks over, eyes widening, and he breathes out a  _ holy shit _ . “You let Vesemir sink his claws in?”

“He asked.”

“He  _ asked _ ? Bullshit.” Lambert goes jogging over, and after a minute Geralt follows, sure that trouble is brewing. Lambert gets to Vesemir first, and the old witcher doesn’t even bother to look at the newest arrival. 

“He’s training.” Is all he says, as if that’s ever been enough to settle Lambert. 

“Like hell he is, Jaskier, what the fuck are you doing?”

“Exactly what Vesemir said!” The bard calls back, swaying between not one, but two pendulums now. Vesemir had added the second only upon Jaskier’s insistence. Geralt can smell the worry emanating off of Lambert, and he reaches out to grab at the man’s shoulder but finds him already moving. He reaches a hand, trying to catch Jaskier by the ankle and pull him down, but Jaskier hops away with ease and gives him a dirty look. Lambert grabs for him again, but again Jaskier skips away, glancing down and waiting for his next move. The pendulums move with almost the same sway, and Jaskier doesn’t even have to look to anticipate their moves. “Helping?”

“No, you little  _ shit. _ You’re on the edge of a cliff and I’m not going to be the one cleaning your carcass up. Get  _ down _ .” 

“Make me.” Lambert growls, lunging and following Jaskier along the wall as Jaskier dodges and leaps away just shy of Lambert’s reach. Somewhere in the time of them having come over to witness Lambert chasing after Jaskier like a kitten with a toy Eskel has arrived, and he slings an arm over Geralt’s shoulder as he approaches. 

“He’s better than you were.” Eskel remarks, watching curiously.

“Shut up.” He’s done remarkably well though, Geralt has to admit. Just seeing that Jaskier is able to dodge Lambert has his heart settling a bit. He can at least be trusted to run if danger shows up. Geralt’s heart doesn’t get a chance to rest much as Lambert finally catches Jaskier’s ankle, yanking him forward. Jaskier’s leg goes out from under him, and Geralt watches in slow motion as Jaskier tips backwards, out toward open air. Vesemir leaps forward, reaching, but Jaskier goes plunging over the edge, and Geralt’s heart stops completely. 

“FUCK. FUCK, I killed the bard-” Lambert goes to hoist himself up so he can peer over, but stops himself short when he hears something. A pained grunt, and a swear colorful enough to curdle milk.

“No, you didn’t, but I’d appreciate it you didn’t attempt to do so again.” Jaskier’s voice comes from the other side of the wall at the same time that he swings himself up and rests on one knee. His arms are shaking and Geralt can smell blood- he’s pulling Jaskier down and hugging him tight before anyone else can move. “Geralt, I’m fine.” 

His voice is muffled against Geralt’s shoulder, and Geralt shudders before pulling back to look for the blood. Jaskier’s palm is torn up by the rough grit of the wood, and Geralt counts at least six splinters that will have to be pulled out. He’s alive though, and that’s enough for him at the moment. “Still like the pendulums?”

“What’s not to like, love?” His tone is light, but his scent is bitter with fear and his voice shakes a little at the end. Geralt presses his lips together, trying not to frown and failing to do so. Jaskier does laugh then, quietly, and he tugs his hand from Geralt’s to turn to Lambert. He holds his bloody palm out, raising a brow. “Kiss it better?”

“Kiss my ass.” Lambert bites out, scowling and leading the bard inside to clean out his hand. Eskel eyes the pendulums still swinging in the wind, and looks toward Geralt. 

“Once, for old times sake?” Geralt shakes his head, but joins Eskel all the same to duck and weave around the pendulums and each other. Vesemir corrects their form, though he hardly needs to, and Geralt only gets down once the pendulums settle and it’s near impossible to move around them. He hops down, landing lightly, and hears soft clapping. Jaskier’s one hand is wrapped tight in a bandage, but he seems put back together again, and Lambert is hanging a step behind his shoulder. 

“Now imagine how much better I’d be with witcher reflexes. No one would ever catch me!” Jaskier casts a sly glance toward Lambert, lips tugging up into a smile. “This one almost didn’t. Beginner’s luck.”

“Who’re you calling a beginner?”

“Not used to sweeping men off their feet, hmm?” Lambert’s cheeks go pink as he scoffs, waving a hand. He opens his mouth to say something, but Vesemir interrupts, nodding his head.

“Heal quickly. We’re going to test your training.” Geralt frowns, wondering how much he could have actually done in a month, but Jaskier’s eyes are eager.

“Yes sir.” 

-*-

“We’re sparring today. Each day, one of you will fight him, to see how he reacts.” Jaskier is standing next to Vesemir as he announces the plan, excitement written all over his face. “Lambert will go first.”

“Really? You want to start with me?”

“Scared? I promise I’ll go easy.” Jaskier quips, rolling his sleeves up and taking a couple steps into the large sparring circle they've marked in the dirt. Lambert growls softly and strips out of his armor, leaving it in the dirt. 

“Don’t bother, this’ll be over before you know it.” Jaskier walks in a slow circle, watching Lambert and humming softly. 

“Are you sure?”

“False bravado makes you look like an ass.” Jaskier nods his head as if he agrees, rolling his shoulders and matching Lambert’s pace. 

They spiral in the ring, slowly coming closer. It seems like neither of them want to strike first, until Jaskier steps forward and swings. The blow is weak, shaky, and Lambert bats his hand away easily. He punches the bard with a swift hit to his stomach, scoffing. Jaskier oofs, bending over, and Lambert comes in closer, aiming another hit meant to incapacitate him. Jaskier’s gone and behind Lambert before the man finishes his swing, bouncing light on his toes. Lambert whirls, using the momentum to punch forward, but Jaskier slips past him, slamming a fist into the underside of the man’s upper arm and dancing away. Lambert grunts, fingers tingling unpleasantly, and advances forward. Geralt watches in fascination as they play cat and mouse, Lambert chasing and chasing as Jaskier whirls and skips away, staying just out of reach. Lambert is faster, manages to keep up easily, but the only blows he manages to land are glancing and Jaskier seems to handle the pain with ease.

“He’s fast.” Eskel murmurs, eyes flitting between the two opponents and lingering longer on Jaskier. Lambert snarls, red faced after another blow hits dead air, and his pupils contract as he watches, waiting. Jaskier stops too, panting and using the moment to catch his breath. Geralt sees the moment that Lambert decides what he’s going to do- his heel digs into the dirt and he launches forward, roaring and tackling Jaskier. The hold is one he doesn’t think that Jaskier will get out of, especially not with an enraged Lambert, but Jaskier grabs onto the back of his shirt and brings his leg up, knee slamming into Lambert’s side twice in quick succession. Lambert’s rib snaps with a dull crack on the second hit, and he howls as the two go rolling in the dirt. A broken rib has never stopped him before, never stopped any of them, but he’s distracted and Jaskier uses the momentum of their roll to fling himself up and off. He scrambles from his knees to his feet, arms coming up and taking the brunt of the blow Lambert aimed for his head. Geralt can see the purple bruises already forming along Jaskier’s arms.

“We should stop this.” Geralt breathes, knowing that if they don’t, Lambert is going to do something he’ll regret later. Still, Jaskier hasn’t left the ring and neither of them have yielded. Lambert’s eyes have gone wild, and Geralt’s heart picks up at the sight. Even he will admit he doesn’t want to go up against Lambert like this unless he absolutely has to, and he’s even more impressed and slightly aroused that Jaskier is holding his own. Lambert gets in close and delivers a vicious right hook, and Jaskier ducks down into a low crouch. Geralt’s eyes track the movement, and he sees Jaskier’s thighs flex and his head tuck to the side as he springs up from his crouch, ramming his shoulder up into Lambert’s tender ribs. Lambert goes stumbling back, hissing, and Jaskier follows him, using one hand on the witcher’s chest to shove an already wobbling Lambert from the ring. 

“Match.” Vesemir says, glancing down at his son who is currently laying in the dirt, hand pressed to his side as he pants. Jaskier pads over and crouches next to him, tilting his head and probing at his side. Lambert smacks his hands away, and Jaskier grimaces. 

“Sorry Lambert. Did it break fully?”

“Just a fracture. Only thing broken is my pride.” 

“I tried to warn you.” Jaskier teases, pulling a vial from his pocket and handing it over. “Thought you’d need this.”

“Cocky son of a bitch-” Lambert takes the Swallow and downs it in one go, laying still so the potion can do its work. Lambert lays his head back in the dirt again, and Jaskier settles by his side to wait. “Thanks.”

“Thank  _ you _ .” Jaskier says in return, grinning when Lambert shoves him. 

“I can’t wait to see Eskel beat your ass.”

Jaskier looks up at the aforementioned witcher, still smiling. “I can’t wait either.”

-*-

Eskel refuses to fight him until his bruises are healed, citing unfair advantages if his opponent is wounded already. No one begrudges him this, and Jaskier takes the time to train a bit more in swordplay. They meet back in the ring a week after Lambert’s fight, Jaskier bouncing on his heels and grinning all the while. Eskel is the mirror opposite; he stands calmly on the other side of the ring, watching with amusement as Jaskier looks at Vesemir to signal the start of their fight. Vesemir waves them both into the ring, nodding. “Begin.” 

Just as before, they begin circling, slowly moving toward one another. This time, Jaskier doesn’t hesitate. He goes on the offensive immediately, throwing quick jabs that hit with loud thuds against Eskel’s forearms. He absorbs the blows and continues his slow pacing, letting Jaskier come to him. It’s smart, after having seen the way that Jaskier was content to let his partner slip into a rage before doing any substantial damage. Eskel hardly gives anything back, but he’s wearing Jaskier out and he knows it. Jaskier backs off when he can’t break through Eskel’s guard, panting and hands trembling lightly. His knuckles are already bruised horribly, and Geralt frowns. Jaskier has wasted all his energy trying to break through Eskel’s guard- Eskel only has to deliver a single blow to Jaskier’s abdomen to send him flying, and he skids along the ground, stopping just inside the circle. Jaskier curls into a ball, wheezing, and Geralt strains to make sure that he didn’t hear a rib snap or something pop. 

“Get up, bard.” Eskel’s voice is soft, and he allows Jaskier room, time to get up. Jaskier rises to his knees, gasping, and then he stumbles to his feet, raising his hands and swaying. “Yield?”

Jaskier shakes his head and Eskel sighs, padding forward. He doesn’t  _ want _ to knock Jaskier out or blow him from the ring, but Jaskier is stubborn, dodging to the side when Eskel tries to push him out of the ring. Eskel follows after him, patiently corralling him to the other side of the ring. Jaskier is still stumbling, blinking rapidly as if the sun bothers him, and Eskel seems to take pity on him. He sweeps a leg out, intending to take him out once and for all, but Jaskier leaps up and over. Eskel grabs at him, knowing where he’ll land, but Jaskier is waiting for it, and he grabs Eskel's hand. He spins on his heel, dragging Eskel’s arm with him and pivoting when Eskel tries to break his hold. Jaskier presses a thumb viciously into the meat of Eskel’s thumb, making the bone grind as he finally gets Eskel’s arm behind him and wrenches upwards. 

Eskel is the one to gasp in pain now, and Jaskier uses his leverage to press him to his knees in the dirt, bending over until Eskel’s face is nearly on the ground and his shoulder shrieks in protest. Geralt feels his blood heat at the sight of Jaskier holding a witcher down with a very well done pin, and his nostrils flare when he smells a spike of arousal from Eskel in the ring. That… doesn’t bother him as much as it should. Jaskier’s voice is raspy as he pants raggedly, pupils wide. “Yield.”

Eskel tries to wiggle his way out, but Jaskier pulls his arm a bit tighter, digs his thumb in harder, and Eskel gasps again. “Yield, I yield.” 

The words stun Geralt, and he looks at Lambert in astonishment as Jaskier lets Eskel go. “Match.” Vesemir calls, pride warming his words. Jaskier nods, smiling, and then promptly turns, takes a few steps away, and vomits into the grass. Geralt hurries to his side immediately while Lambert goes to help Eskel up, rubbing at Jaskier’s back and murmuring softly. The smell of bile hits his nose, sharp and raw, and he grimaces as Jaskier dry heaves, tears dripping down his cheeks. Geralt looks closely at what Jaskier throws up, looking for any blood, but finds nothing but their breakfast from this morning. Good. Nothing seems to have been damaged internally, at least not that he can tell yet, and Jaskier straightens up slowly, wiping at his mouth and burping.

“Ugh, that’s disgusting.”

“Are you alright?” Jaskier nods, giving Geralt a soft smile. Eskel comes over now, holding out a waterskin and allowing Jaskier to rinse his mouth out. Eskel also urges the bard to drink a bit, and rubs the back of his head sheepishly. 

“Didn’t mean to hit you that hard, Jask.”

“No, it was a good swing. Almost had me there for a minute. Am I going to get a medal?”

“For what?” Geralt says, voice tinged with amusement and worry and everything else in between. 

“Well, beating two witchers at hand to hand combat, of course.” 

“You still have one more to go. Beat the White Wolf, and then we’ll talk.” Lambert peers around Eskel, wrinkling his nose at the smell of vomit and pointedly not looking Jaskier’s way again. Jaskier locks eyes with Geralt, winking, and Geralt regrets agreeing to the sparring now more than ever. 

-*-

It takes Jaskier a full week to recover from Eskel's well placed punch, and he spends every minute of it working or training. His stomach recovers fine, much to Eskel's (and Geralt's) relief, and Jaskier seems supremely pleased that he was able to even survive such a hit. The weather has gotten colder now as winter fully grasps the valley, and snow falls lightly as they convene outside for Jaskier’s final test. 

“Something different today. Swords.” Vesemir waves toward the wooden training swords and Jaskier grimaces. Lambert though, is grinning. If there’s one thing that Geralt is known for, that Jaskier sings of constantly, it’s his swordsmanship. 

“Really? I don’t think-” 

“He’s already proven his hand to hand. I want to see his sword skills.” Jaskier doesn't object, taking a sword when Geralt holds it out to him. Geralt looks like he's swallowed something sour as he rolls his wrist and dips into a slight crouched stance. Jaskier mirrors the stance but doesn't seem nearly as comfortable. 

"You don't have to." Geralt says softly as they walk a slow circle around each other. 

"I do." Jaskier replies, nodding his head. "Let's get this over with, love."

Geralt feels his heart constrict- he doesn't want to risk hurting Jaskier, doesn't think he could stomach it, but Jaskier isn’t going to back down. He starts out easy, blows that Jaskier can parry or block without being terribly inconvenienced. He can imagine the sad, frustrated look on Jaskier’s face when he loses, and Geralt’s heart breaks for him already. Geralt is half in his thoughts when Jaskier swings, blade sailing for his side. He moves to block, but Jaskier’s arm twitches and he moves trajectory, smacking Geralt hard on the arm with the flat of his blade. Geralt’s skin stings, and his eyes narrow minutely. His nostrils flair- he’d expected Jaskier to smell like rotting fruit- anxious and resigned, but he doesn’t. He smells of citrus, sharp and bright. Excited.

Geralt lets himself go a bit harder, moves faster and with more of that impossible dancer's grace. None of the witcher’s fought quite like he did, with spinning, overly dramatic moves that were just as effective in disemboweling someone. He expects Jaskier to fall behind, expects to feel his blade strike some soft part of Jaskier’s body, but Jaskier… doesn’t. He grins, laughs, and moves through Geralt’s moves as if they were his own. He mirrors them as effortlessly as Geralt attempts to hit him, and Geralt isn’t sure what to think of this. Jaskier’s spins and hops around him, drops low into near splits that has Geralt wincing in pain at the thought. No wonder he liked the pendulum- they’re the perfect way to avoid an enemy, and he spent ample time on them. 

“Stop dancing with each other and  _ fight _ !” Lambert calls, and that breaks Jaskier’s concentration. He glances over, away from Geralt, and Geralt lunges forward. His blade is a hair's breadth away from Jaskier’s head, a move that will knock him out if Geralt’s lucky when Jaskier bends backwards. He doesn’t stop just out of reach- he bends fully over, spine creating an elegant arch as his hands plant in the dirt and he flips backwards. The toe of his boot catches Geralt’s wrist, jarring his fingers, and the blade goes flying as Jaskier completes his hand stand and drops, chest to the ground. The world around Geralt tilts sharply as the heel of a boot smashes into the backs of his knees, and he goes down onto his back, wheezing and failing to suck in a breath. 

He hears the shuffle of feet in the dirt as Jaskier steps forward, rolling his wrist and twirling the blade the way that Geralt has done a thousand times. He presses the dull wooden tip against the soft skin under Geralt’s jaw and digs in lightly, tipping his chin up. His eyes are dark, dangerous, and Geralt feels heat pool in his stomach. He shouldn’t be getting  _ aroused _ at this, at being beaten, but Jaskier is spectacular, wreathed in light with snow in his hair and cheeks red from exertion. 

“Yield, love?”

“Yield.” Geralt breathes out, raising his hands in a placating gesture. A smirk plays across Jaskier’s lips, and Geralt wants nothing more than to kiss him until neither of them can breathe. Jaskier tosses the sword in the dirt and offers Geralt a hand as he leans up. Geralt thinks for a moment about yanking Jaskier down and pinning him into the dirt, but Jaskier draws in a sharp breath and narrows his eyes. 

“Don’t even think about it.” Geralt schools his expression into one of faint annoyance, for having lost of course, and not because he’s predictable enough that Jaskier knows what he was planning. Geralt scoops Jaskier’s discarded blade up as he gets to his feet, and hears Lambert begin to laugh. 

“We have got to be the  _ worst _ witchers- a fuckin  _ bard _ beat all of us!” Lambert laughs harder, doubling over and slapping his thigh. 

“Vesemir must be quite the teacher.” Eskel says in agreement, eyes sparkling with amusement as he nods toward Jaskier. Jaskier reaches to brush some dirt off of his pants, smiling and glancing over at Vesemir. Vesemir nods, sharing a small, private look, and Jaskier straightens up.

“I uh, may have misled you lot about my apparent lack of skills.” That shuts Lambert up, and he stands up, frowning hard. Jaskier laughs nervously, shuffles his feet in the dirt, and hurries to explain. “While I am nowhere near your skills as witchers, I ah, was trained as a child. Extensively, I might add, in the art of war.”

“Ha! So the old man  _ isn’t _ responsible for that?”

“Well, he certainly helped reawaken old skills.” Geralt stares at Jaskier, confusion on his face and lips pressed together in a tight line. 

“But… Every time I tried to-” Jaskier clears his throat, blushing, and takes Geralt’s hand in his.

“Ulterior motives, love.” Lambert scoffs in disgust, Eskel laughing quietly.

-*-

“Show me that move, the one you used to disarm Geralt.” Lambert insists that night while they’re eating dinner, golden-amber eyes shining.

“Inside? Fine.” Jaskier sighs dramatically, standing up from the table and moving a few steps away. He folds himself back, fingers splaying against the stony ground, and lifts himself up onto his hands, tilting his body and lowering himself down until his chest is parallel to the floor. He pauses there a moment, then swings his legs around in a sharp burst of speed, knocking over one of the chairs and grunting at the pain in his shins. He’s folded oddly now, still holding all his weight up and off the ground, and he slowly unfolds himself, shaking out his hands as he hops to his feet. “Good enough?”

“Holy  _ fuck _ .” Lambert gapes, thoroughly impressed. Geralt doesn’t say anything, but he has to agree with Lambert’s amazement. He hadn’t been able to see the whole move, being the target, but it’s rather impressive, and highlights all of the lovely muscles in Jaskier’s arms. Lambert leans over to whisper at Geralt, eyes tracking Jaskier as he picks up the fallen chair and collapses into it, grinning when Eskel says something to him. “You lucky son of a bitch.”

Geralt feels his chest rumble, and distantly hears himself growl, but his eyes are on Jaskier and the exposed column of his neck. Geralt blinks, shaking his head, and tries his best not to seem like a luststricken fool. Jaskier’s eyes aren’t on Geralt, and he can’t possibly have heard the noise Geralt made, but he tilts his head, the muscles in his neck shifting as he slouches in the chair, legs spreading just a bit. Geralt growls louder at that, and Lambert rolls his eyes, smacking Geralt lightly on the shoulder. Geralt jolts, swallows hard and tears his gaze from Jaskier. “Jask, come here. I want to know how you fought like that.”

Jaskier rises to his feet obediently, plopping back into his old seat near Geralt. “Like what?”

“Like me.” It’s been bugging him since they came inside, and he wants to know. He didn’t do that with Eskel or Lambert- he’d used what advantages he had, but he hadn’t bothered trying to emulate them. 

“I watch you. A lot. And… Working on the pendulums, it gave me a better sense of your footwork- the way you move. From there, it was about putting the pieces together to create-”

“A dance.” Geralt’s eyes meet Jaskier’s and Jaskier nods, beaming. 

“Just so. I didn’t need to be able to actually best you in combat, I just had to survive long enough to  _ disarm _ you.” 

Lambert looks between them, then glances at Eskel, pretending to throw up and rolling his eyes. Geralt sees him mouth the word ‘saps’ and he reaches out to flick Lambert’s ear. He hisses, swatting Geralt away and glaring. He’s still covering his ear from further onslaught when he looks expectantly at Jaskier, as if to say  _ what about us? _

“Hmmm. As for you two, I couldn’t spend nearly as much time watching, so I used what I knew. You, my spitfire, are easy to piss off and keep that way. It makes you easy to read.” Jaskier winks at Lambert even as he scowls, but he won’t argue. It’s pretty accurate and he knows it. Jaskier’s attention turns to Eskel, who’s waiting quietly to hear his weakness. “You, my gentle giant, are harder. You’re much more patient, and I can’t rile you for the life of me. But, I  _ can _ use that gentleness against you.”

Eskel hums, considering this, but he also finds no fault in Jaskier’s thinking. He  _ didn’t _ want to hurt Jaskier, especially not in front of Geralt, and that had made him easy prey. “Okay, now I have a question about  _ you _ .”

“My favorite subject.” Jaskier grins, waving for Eskel to go on.

“How did you become so flexible?”

“Ah, yes, everyone always seems to ask me that.” Jaskier muses, tapping a finger on his chin and smirking when Geralt nudges for him to go on instead of dragging out the silence. “I traveled with a carnival troupe when I graduated from the academy. I played the music to accompany their shows, and learned much from the acrobats in the family. One of them, a very pretty elf, was particularly interested in using it combatively. It’s served me well, thus far.”

“ _ Very _ well.” Lambert’s grin is saucy, and Eskel groans as Jaskier laughs. Geralt sits there, throat dry and cheeks blazing red. He sees Jaskier glance over out of the corner of his eye, and he tenses up to keep from reacting as Jaskier’s hand slides up his thigh suggestively. Geralt swallows hard, and Jaskier sighs at the same time he begins to draw patterns over the fabric of Geralt’s pants. 

“Well, now that I am an honorary witcher through ancient rites, I am going to sleep. No one dare wake me.” Jaskier’s voice is threatening, but he’s smiling and chuckles when Lambert mutters  _ honorary witcher my ass.  _ Jaskier glances over at Geralt, hand falling away as he stands to leave. He stoops to kiss Geralt lightly, humming against his lips. “Coming up soon?”

“Mhm.” Jaskier heads up to bed alone, and Geralt only manages to stay with his brothers for another few minutes before following Jaskier up to bed. Lambert whistles at him as he leaves, and Geralt’s cheeks are red as he climbs the stairs up to their room. 

  
  
  



End file.
